Air Force Eagles (51 page)

The sheering winds forced the swept wings to flex near their limit, bending upward not in a simple U shape but in an undulating wave that began in the center of the aircraft and moved in a washboard ripple out to the tips. The flapping caused an alternation of pressures, a squeezing and relaxation that deformed the milk-bottle pin fittings holding the wings to the fuselage, weakening them as they elongated.

Within the wing-fuselage juncture, the tiny flaw discovered four months before was stressed with each flap of the wing, lengthening a bit at a time, creeping inexorably toward the milk-bottle pin like a crack in a dropped mirror.

As Nectar 19 passed through 22,000 feet, the aircraft shuddered in the increasing turbulence, sending the wingtips flapping through a ten-foot arc, each cycle moving the fitting imperceptibly upward. Suddenly the crack spurted forward, relieving the compression that held the milk-bottle pin tightly within its grasp. At 21,000 feet, the pin popped out of its socket like a champagne cork from a bottle; instantly the immense forces of the storm tore the left wing from the aircraft like a sheet of paper from a phone book. The rest of the airplane rolled violently to the left for three-quarters of a turn before disintegrating in a massive explosion that illuminated the thunderstorm brighter than lightning. The last words of the aircraft commander, inadvertently transmitted to Wichita radio, were the last words of most pilots in most crashes—"Oh, shit!"

*

Frederick Air Force Base, California/June 20, 1955

"This is a hell of a way for two hot pilots to arrive." Riley and Bandfield were in a rented Chevrolet, waiting in line in the morning rush hour to go through the gates at Frederick.

Riley laughed. "Well, LeMay wanted to keep this as quiet as he could, involve as few people as possible. I didn't want to spook anybody by filing a flight plan here. I'm sure Coleman's on the lookout for visitors from Omaha."

"What's our first stop?"

"We're going right to the Air Police headquarters; I'm going to requisition twenty APs and have them shut down the wing headquarters and every squadron operations office. Then we'll have them vacate the place and you and I'll start checking their bookkeeping."

"God, I hate this, Bear! Why didn't LeMay just call Coleman in and ask him what's going on?"

"They've lost two B-47s from this wing in the last year—and they're supposed to have the best flying and maintenance record in SAC. I've looked at the records for the last airplane that went in, and something stinks."

The major running the Air Police squadron was reluctant to cooperate at first, wanting to call Coleman to find out what was going on.

"You go ahead and call him, Major, and I'll be calling General LeMay at the same time. You saw my orders—I expect you to cooperate."

Thirty minutes later the doors to the wing headquarters and the three squadron operations offices were closed; outside each one an Air Policeman stood guard, with orders not to let anyone in or out.

The two men burst into Coleman's office without knocking; he jumped up, spilling his coffee.

"Bandfield! Riley! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Colonel Coleman, we're here to go through your records. Something phony is going on, and you'll save a lot of time if you just tell us what it is. If you don't, I'm putting in a call to SAC headquarters, and I'll have fifty eager young officers down here with fine-tooth combs, figuring out just what your game is."

Coleman staggered, put his hand up to the wall and knocked a picture clattering to the floor. His mind whirled like a wheel stuck in a snowbank, spinning helplessly, unable to think. Finally he waved his arm at the door to his conference room. "In there."

In the glass-walled room next door, Fitzpatrick had already risen from his chair. He spoke to Coleman first. "Well, Stan, I guess our luck's run out." Then he turned to Bandfield and Riley. "I wondered when you guys were going to catch on. Lemme show you what we were doing."

The following morning, Coleman, his three bomb squadron commanders, and Fitzpatrick were gone from the base, their resignations processed.

"Those guys should have gone to jail, Bear. I thought LeMay was such a tough guy."

"He's tough, all right, but he got his instructions straight from the White House. The word was 'Let them resign.' They're going to clamp a lid on this, Bandy, just like I thought they would."

"It's not right; this wasn't just some kind of fraud, this was murder. If they'd inspected that B-47 the way they were supposed to, they might have caught the crack in the wing."

"You think LeMay likes it? His hands are tied; somebody got to the President."

"Somebody? It was that bastard Ruddick, for sure, taking care of his son-in-law again."

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/August 1, 1955

Ruddick was alone in his office, doing some damage assessment. It could have been a lot worse. Coleman's stupid boneheadedness would have gotten him court-martialed if he hadn't been able to intervene with the President. But now time was running out. He could fight off comments on the Hill about being a Klan member—hell, half the congressmen in the South backed the Klan. It looked like things were quiet on the McNaughton front, but the rash of crashes might cause it to blow up anytime. Getting Stan off had cost him the last of his political chits at the White House, and more.

The whole business was unraveling because of sheer stupidity—the venal Baker jeopardizing the whole scheme for a few thousand in kickbacks; Coleman cheating like some schoolboy. Neither needed to have done it. He'd have paid them to keep their noses clean. If Elsie hadn't been a trooper, keeping her mouth shut about the whole business, he might have been going to jail.

The only thing good about the mess was the timing. He had been planning to leave Washington at the end of the year anyway, to come back to Little Rock and take over the Klan from Josten, who was running it as if he were the Fuehrer himself. Everything Josten had done so far was positive—but he needed to be controlled. The mess with McNaughton just moved his decision up on the schedule.

He glanced at the clock; it was after six. Walking to the buffet, he put two cubes of ice in a glass and filled it halfway with Wild Turkey. He'd been drinking more lately, but he needed it. He sipped the drink slowly until six-thirty, then gulped the rest of it down. He carefully rinsed the glass and chewed on a peppermint. Ginny was coming over; she'd stayed on the wagon, and he didn't want to remind her of her drinking problem.

Sending her to work for the governor had been a masterstroke; she'd wheedled her way into a position of influence in no time at all, and he wasn't asking how. She'd arranged an appointment with him tonight, here in Ruddick's own office, telling the governor only that it was "a private matter, one that had to be kept secret."

"The governor"—she rolled the words around her mouth—"will be here in a few minutes. He was hesitant about meeting here at first, but finally agreed. I hinted that you wanted to talk about the Klan. Dixon will be coming with him."

Ruddick and the governor had never been friends, but he had worked with him for thirty years, contributing regularly to his campaign chest. The door opened, and they came in, the tiny Price skittering in front like a sparrow. The governor, tall and painfully thin, was the picture of a country schoolmaster in his rumpled seersucker suit, thinning blond hair combed over his bald dome, iron-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his great Roman nose. Behind the glasses his eyes were bright and searching. Physically, Ruddick and the governor were similar, but the way they clothed and groomed themselves was totally different. The governor was a man of the people—Ruddick was a suave operator from the military-industrial complex.

"Hello, Mr. Congressman. I want to thank you for sending your beautiful daughter to work with me."

"Governor, I've always been willing to do my part for the great state of Arkansas—and I'm sure my daughter will do hers."

Dixon broke in. "We haven't got a lot of time, Milo, but he wants to talk to you about the Klan."

"Dixon's probably told you that it's been rejuvenated, Governor. It's not the half-baked collection of nitwits it was ten years ago. And it's gathering strength." After thirty years, he knew better than to call the governor by his first name—the man was an egomaniac.

"It better. There's lots of pressure on me to integrate the schools and end segregation. I'm going to need some signs of popular support; I can't do it by myself—and I can't associate myself directly with the Klan."

Ruddick smiled. "I was jesting, speaking for the record. Between you and me there'll be as much violence as we can create. We want the niggers in the streets, fighting mad."

The governor was startled. "You want the niggers violent? I meant the white folks, the rednecks, our guys!"

"Sure—but just in reaction, defending hearth and home, preserving the virtue of their women. We've got to get the nigras to strike the first blows, to blow up a school, do something that'll bring down the righteous wrath of the white man on them. A rape would be good, a child molestation better."

Sensing Price's agreement, he said, "That's a twist, Milo. Get the nigras violent, eh? That's what's always been feared, the slave rebellion, the black man up in arms. You're sure this is the right way to go?"

"Of course. You can't make a move today without some pinko newsman from the North down here writing things up. Let's let the nigras do the dirty work, get some sympathy in the press."

The governor looked nervously at Dixon, then back at Ruddick. "Didn't you keep a bar here? Can't a man get a drink?"

Ruddick went to the bar and, grinning, Ginny said, "Just a little one for me, Daddy."

He poured three healthy drinks and one ladylike, well diluted. The governor sat quietly, sipping, turning Ruddick's idea over in his mind as Price made a phone call.

"Let me understand this. Can you provide violence on demand?"

"Yes, sir. Give me twenty-four hours notice, and we'll give you a riot. Give us forty-eight hours, and we'll give you a rebellion."

"Governor, you've known me a long time—do you think I'd let some crippled-up German come in and take over my territory? I'm using him, and when I'm finished, I'll get rid of him."

"Good. But be ready. I don't know when we're going to have to act, but it'll be soon. Then we've got to beat it down."

"Right; I'm your man, just like I've been for thirty years. But I'm thinking of leaving the federal government—and I may need a hidey-hole."

"You're in trouble?"

"I might be; some foolish business about contracts, a problem I had nothing to do with, really, but I may have to take the fall."

"What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was thinking that you might need some consulting services for the state—you know, looking into rural education, poverty, civil rights, things like that."

"Maybe, but what would it cost?"

"Let's talk first about what it would get you. I've been supporting the Klan for many years now, and my well is run dry. Old Dixon will confirm that for you. We're running out of money just when you're going to need the Klan most."

"I have some discretionary money, but that wouldn't be enough."

Price hung up the phone and swigged the last of his drink—he reminded Ruddick of the little toy birds that bobbed their heads up and down in a glass. He wiped his mouth, and said, "Milo, do you still have that little construction company over on Whipple Street?"

"It's inactive, but I could get it cranked up again."

"Well, Governor, I think we could find some money for contracts for some construction, don't you?"

"Sure; that's probably the way to go. There's always a bridge needing repair or some roads to be built out in the hill country."

*

Chino, California/August 15, 1955

Even in the early dawn, the airfield looked as if World War II had mugged it and left it to die; sprinkled around the edges of the runways was every kind of fighter and bomber, most in disrepair. Edging the field was a line of hangars put up during the war, in varying stages of dilapidation. Outside the fourth from the end—if you didn't count the two pads where the remains of burned-out hangars lay—Marshall and Roget were standing by a sign that read:

MARSHALL AVIATION

AERIAL FIRE FIGHTING

AGRICULTURAL AVIATION

CHARTER FLIGHTS

FLIGHT INSTRUCTION